“It is enough,” he said. “More than enough. I didn’t want to fall asleep.”

“Please don’t apologize,” said Doctor Thanakar politely. “It was only a few minutes. We were quite comfortable.”

The antinomial looked puzzled. He ran his finger along a steel string, making a little noise. “You don’t understand,” he said. “No apology was intended. I mean that you have stayed here long enough. Too long.”

He would have claimed, thought Thanakar, that there was music in his words. But as usual, it was irritating and presumptuous. Thanakar tried to rise, but the prince had grabbed him by the sleeve. “No offense, Cousin,” he cried in his high, gentle voice. He was still drunk. He stammered something, closed his eyes and partly opened them in a way that was habitual with him, showing only the whites, his lashes trembling as if with the effort of speech. “No . . . No offense taken. He is right. It is late.”

Thanakar shook himself loose and rose painfully to his feet. But already he felt a little foolish. His anger had come quickly and was just as quickly overwhelmed. At his full height, the top of his head was on a level with the antinomial’s armpit. “My cousin is Prince Abu Starbridge,” he said sulkily. “You cannot understand the honor we do you just to come here.”

“No doubt,” replied the antinomial. “But this I do understand. I played my flute, and gave you drink, and told you the story closest to my heart, and it was not for my own happiness, my lords.”

The cats walked back and forth. “I’m not sure what you mean,” stammered the prince.

There was a silence. And then the girl spoke from where she sat, smiling and looking at the cats. “He is asking to be paid,” she said. “It’s a form of begging. Surely it’s a tune you know.”

Thanakar frowned. They had paid already, a price already agreed on, and they had been generous. They had brought down baskets of food, real vegetables and valuable fruits, and loaves of bread, and chocolate, enough for several men for several days. They had carried them with their own hands. He turned angrily away, for the price had been agreed, but from the floor Prince Abu blinked and stammered. “Oh,” he said, “of course. How stupid. I forgot. I brought him a gift. He told me what to bring. It slipped my mind, I’m sorry. Let me see . . .” He fumbled with his overcoat and drew from an inside pocket a bulky package wrapped in linen. “It’s not quite what you wanted.” He undid the strings to reveal a wooden case. Inside lay a pair of silver dueling pistols in a nest of velvet.

“I know you were expecting something more practical,” continued the prince apologetically. “But I don’t have much access to firearms.”

The antinomial made a little noise on his guitar. “Single shot?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“Ammunition?”

“N-no.”

“Are they . . . valuable?”